


bei mir bist du schön

by owilde



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, M/M, Pet Names, Romance, Timeline What Timeline, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 00:38:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16006646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owilde/pseuds/owilde
Summary: Bucky says “Honey,” and Steve chokes on his coffee, burning his tongue in the process.Or, the four times Bucky calls him by a term of endearment, and the one time Steve finally gets it.





	bei mir bist du schön

**Author's Note:**

> I read [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5936644) ColdFlash fic and couldn't get the concept out of my mind, so, here we are.
> 
> Title taken from the song "Bei Mir Bist Du Schön" by The Andrews Sisters. Beta read by the delightful [justrandome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justrandome) \- check them out, maybe?

Bucky says “Honey,” and Steve chokes on his coffee, burning his tongue in the process. He splutters and wheezes, trying to be discrete about it but most likely failing horribly; he can feel Clint’s questioning gaze on his face as he continues swapping recipes with Bucky.

They’re standing in Steve and Bucky’s kitchen, where Clint’s slowly becoming a permanent fixture. Bucky has taken to cooking – something about being able to afford food and finding making it relaxing – and Clint, hearing about it through the grapevine, had one day showed up unannounced behind their door with a pile of notebooks in his hands.

“Heard you were into this,” he’d said, scratching his neck. “Did you want to compare notes?”

After some hesitation, and a couple of visits, it had turned into a habit. He’d come over on Fridays, and he and Bucky would sit by the dining table or lounge around the kitchen, talking or cooking. Bucky told Steve it made him feel better adjusted, like making crème brûlée was somehow a good substitute for therapy – which he kept telling Steve he wasn’t ready for – so Steve didn’t mind having to disappear out of the house once a week.

He usually tries to stay out of their way. Today, he’d been supposed to go out with Sam, but he’d called earlier to cancel, leaving Steve to flounder around their small apartment with no real direction and the increasing sense of being in the way.

He’d stepped into the kitchen for coffee, focusing on his tablet – a gift from Tony he was still learning to unravel – when the word cut through the muddle of his thoughts, sharp and surprising.

“Honey,” Bucky says, writing the word down. “And sugar. Won’t that be too sweet?”

Clint, still side-eyeing Steve, shakes his head. “Nah, they’ll work great with the carrots.”

“Alright,” Bucky says, sounding skeptical. “Honey, sugar–”

And he really needs to stop saying words that make Steve’s throat contract. He clicks his tablet screen off and squeezes it between his arm and side, taking his coffee cup in one hand and a slice of cinnamon bread in another, before making his exit to the living room.

He sits down on the couch, placing his cup and plate on the coffee table, and sighs. Clint and Bucky’s words are soon drowned out by his headphones – another gift from Tony, another aspect of the modern world he appreciates. Steve asked Natasha to make some lists for him, and she’d delivered. He scrolls through them now, smiling at some of the titles – _Shit You Really Missed Out On, Ninety Nineties Necessities, Best Battle Jams –_ until he reaches the end.

Steve’s smile dims slightly as curls his fingers into a fist, before flexing them. There are two lists at the very bottom he’s never clicked on, two that he knows Natasha has made with special care – and while he appreciates the effort, he’s not… ready.

That’s something he and Bucky have in common now, despite everything that has torn them apart. They’re both scrambled up inside, both still clinging on to the past in some ways, not ready for a lot of things.

One of the lists is titled, efficiently, _1940’s._ Steve’s grateful Nat hasn’t done anything special with it. It doesn’t need anything more than that. The picture on the cover is a black-and-white image of Brooklyn, from way back when. Nothing more, nothing less.

The other one, the scariest one, is also efficiently titled. It has an old picture on the cover, taken from an educational film – grainy and blurry, but it still makes Steve’s heart flip. _Bucky_. No first name, no last name, no name given to him by Hydra or any government operative – just Bucky. His Bucky.

Steve takes a sip of his coffee, making a face at the bitterness. Another familiar relic from the past. He takes a deep breath, and clicks the list open.

None of the songs look familiar. Some of the artists he’s seen on other lists, but he can’t remember if he’d liked them or not. Probably. He’s not too picky with music. Steve presses shuffle on, and leans back against his chair, sighing.

He’ll have to thank Natasha later, for taking the time to make the lists. Even if he were up to date with music, he doesn’t think he would had the inner strength to shift through countless of hours of lyrics and moods to find the pieces he thinks encompasses everything he feels towards Bucky.

Songs fade in and out, blurring into one another, as Steve finishes his coffee and cinnamon bread – made by Bucky, and not too shabby, for someone who’s only recently started baking. He can imagine their shelves will soon be filled with pastries and pies. Maybe they should have a sale, ask Pepper to arrange it.

Steve doesn’t pay attention to the music. He can’t. Not yet, anyway. But it’s a first step, giving it a try, skimming through it.

Two hours later, Clint pokes his head around the corner and waves Steve goodbye. Steve takes his headphones off and hears the door fall shut, and soon, Bucky walks into the living room and flops down on the couch beside Steve.

“Good day?” Steve asks, glancing at Bucky. He doesn’t look bad – no worse than usual. He never really looks like he used to, but Steve knows he doesn’t want to – and Steve doesn’t want that, either, doesn’t want to be staring at a ghost every day. So the long hair stays, and the scrubby close-shave, and the rings underneath his eyes.

Bucky shrugs one shoulder, looking at the empty coffee cup on the table. “Yeah, alright,” he says. “Pretty sure Barton’s tryna make me eat more vegetables – he’s almost as bad as you, by this point, when it comes to mothering me.”

“I don’t mother you,” Steve argues. “But Clint better; someone has to.”

A corner of Bucky’s mouth quirks up into a ghost of a smile. “You pester me night and day about eating and sleepin’ and showering,” he reminds Steve. “Not that I don’t appreciate you caring, but seriously, Steve – don’t lie to yourself. Or me.”

Steve almost asks, _do you remember, when I was sick and you’d take care of me? Well, now you’re not well, and I gotta take care of you_. But he doesn’t say that, because _do you remember_ questions are off the table until Bucky starts therapy. _Do you remember_ questions usually give answers neither of them likes.

Instead, he says, “Fine. Doesn’t mean Clint’s wrong for making you eat vegetables.”

The smile turns into a full-blown grin as Bucky lolls his head to look at Steve. “Never said he was.”

“Sure sounded like it,” Steve mumbles, and opens Kindle. “Did you want to continue A Clash of Kings or Macbeth?”

“Scoot over,” Bucky says, and once Steve does, lays down horizontally with his feet in Steve’s lap. He grabs a decorative pillow under his head and closes his eyes. “Macbeth.”

Steve’s eyes linger on his face for a small while, pressing things into memory. Then he starts reading from where they’d left off the last time, settling easily into their familiar rhythm.

 

*

 

They’re in the middle of a briefing – or rather, Steve is, and Bucky’s sitting in the corner on his phone, steadily ignoring everyone’s presence. Technically, he’s not supposed to be there. Technically, he’s not an Avenger – or even alive, as far as the government is concerned. James Buchanan Barnes doesn’t exist on paper, no matter how many times they’ve tried to get him legitimized.

He’s not supposed to be there, but no one said no when he started showing up to confidential meetings by Steve’s side, so he continues to tag along. He doesn’t _do_ anything, per se, doesn’t even really say anything. He mostly sits further off, scrolling through twitter, and then grins at Steve when he announces they can leave and asks if they should order take-away.

An agent is going through the details of a mission, when Bucky calls out, “Steve? What’s ‘bae’?”

Steve freezes as everyone’s eyes snap to him. He risks a glance in Tony’s direction; he’s not even bothering to pretend to hide his laughter.

“Uh,” Steve starts, and clears his throat. “I don’t know, Bucks, some kind of slang?”

The agent looks dismayed. “As far as I’m aware, this is not strictly relevant to our briefing–”

“No,” Tony interrupts, lifting a hand to silence him. He’s grinning. “Why do you wanna know, Barnes?”

Steve turns to look at Bucky, who’s staring at his phone, brows furrowed. He looks so out of place, it’s almost funny to Steve. He didn’t think he’d ever get to see Bucky in the 21st century. Though, he also didn’t think he’d get to see himself there, either. “Someone on twitter called me “Captain America’s bae”. What’s it mean?”

Steve’s not the most adept at internet lingo – he has to google most things, because his pride will not allow him to ask Tony. But he’s pretty sure he can guess at the general sense of whatever the word means, and can feels his skin get warmer.

He hears Clint starting to laugh, too, and that can’t bode well. “Sort of like your times’ _darling_ ,” Clint supplies helpfully. “Stands for ‘before anyone else.’”

From the corner of his eye, Steve can see Natasha suppressing a smile. “Cute,” she says, and he can hear the amusement in her tone.

“Oh,” Bucky says. He looks up at Steve, who feels he’s resembling the approximate color of a beetroot. “I guess you’re my bae.”

Tony breaks into loud laughter again as Steve looks desperately at Bucky, willing him to shut his mouth. He feels a burst of anger in his chest, irrational but still there, because they don’t understand. It’s funny to them, but Steve can’t put into words how much he _does_ put Bucky before anyone else, has done for so long he can’t remember a time where Bucky wasn’t his everything.

It’s a nice expression, Steve thinks, but it hits too close to home for him to find it particularly amusing.

He stares at Bucky, not knowing what to say. He doesn’t think Bucky knows, either, just how much Steve loves him. Just what particular strand of love he feels. “Bucky,” he says, trying to tune out Tony’s laughter. “Let’s talk about this at home, okay?”

Bucky seems to sense something in his tone, or maybe they really _are_ telepathically connected, because he drops the subject immediately. “Alright,” he says, turning his eyes back to his screen. “He’s all yours, agent Johnson.”

The agent – and why does Bucky know his name, when Steve doesn’t – looks mildly relieved. “Thank you,” he says in a tight voice. “Now, _if_ we could resume…”

Once the briefing’s over, they all filter out. Bucky latches on to Steve’s side, taking up the familiar space with ease. They take a cab back home, as they always do, and as always, Steve leans his head against the window and watches the scenery go by. So much of it looks familiar, and so much of it he can’t recognize.

This time, Bucky starts talking before they even reach Brooklyn. “About what happened,” he says, and when Steve doesn’t turn to look at him, he adds, “Steve.”

Steve turns his head. Bucky’s face is expressionless. “Yeah?” He asks.

Bucky bites his lip. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You never do,” Steve says, and he knows he’s being honest. “It’s the others. They don’t… get it.”

“Get it?” Bucky asks, frowning. “Get what?”

Steve wishes he didn’t have to have this conversation. He doesn’t know what Bucky feels, or how much he knows – he doesn’t know _anything_ , and he can’t ask without the fear of ruining it all. “Us,” he says, hoping Bucky would just _get it_. “That we’re– that we go way back. That this isn’t a normal… I don’t know.”

Bucky’s frown slowly dissipates. “Oh. Right.” He pauses, looking away from Steve and at the streets. They’ve reached their block. “It’s still true. You’re my… whatever.”

Steve’s heart does its flips again, routinely. “I know,” he says. “You’re mine, too, Bucks.”

They don’t speak again until they’re home, safely tucked within their own walls.

 

*

 

On the weeks that they don’t stop by the Avengers Tower, Natasha skypes them. It took some explaining, until Steve got the hang of it – on how to video chat. But Darcy was patient, or as patient as she could be, and Steve’s not _dumb_ , or old, he’s just out of his time. So he caught up quick, and then taught Bucky in turn, and now they have skype nights every Sunday.

The line beeps its familiar tune as Steve and Bucky sit by the kitchen table, Steve’s laptop in front of them. They’re squeezed tight, their arms and legs pressing against each other, and Steve’s always tempted to just reach out, and take Bucky’s hand. Or even a finger. But he never does, and the temptation always passes eventually.

The line clicks, and Natasha’s face appears on the screen, blurry at first and then sharp after a few seconds. “Hey,” she greets, waving a little. “How are you old men doing?”

They roll their eyes almost synchronously. “I was in ice,” Steve protests. “I’m still young.”

Bucky snorts. “At least I know how to tweet,” he says, sounding proud. “You still haven’t managed.”

Steve side-eyes him. “I know how to tweet.”

“Oh, really?” Bucky drawls. “I haven’t seen a Captain America account pop up, so far.”

Steve’s stomach clenches. He can’t exactly _tell_ Bucky, can he? That he’s been running art accounts under a pseudonym, and occasionally tweets vague things about Bucky without ever mentioning it’s him, or that it’s Steve writing. He has a small following of people who like to compliment his poetry and drawings. No one’s asked who he really is. No one’s guessed.

Natasha saves him from having to lie. “Look at you two, bickering like an old married couple,” she says dryly. “How adorable.”

Steve’s stomach hurts more. He’s done his reading – he knows they could. Be married, that is. He knows that a lot of things are legal now, and that a lot of things are acceptable now. He knows, if he could tell Bucky he’s been in love with him for decades, that they wouldn’t put him away or shun him for it.

But he can’t tell him. Not now, not when everything’s still so fragile. He’ll have to, eventually – but he has his own arbitrary deadlines in place. After Bucky’s started therapy, he’s decided. After old memories don’t hurt them both so much. After Steve can tell Bucky’s more in the present than stuck in the basement of a Hydra warehouse.

“Hardy har,” he says, aloud, not wanting to look at Bucky. “Speaking of, how’s life with Wanda?”

Nat’s sharp grin melts into something kinder, something more private. “Good,” she says. “We’re still settling into all of it. She’s… something special.” She scrunches her nose. “It’s all so civilian, though. Shared rooms, sleeping in the same bed, all of that. Didn’t think I’d ever get to see it.”

“You deserve the normality,” Bucky says, and he sounds softer than Steve’s heard in a while. “It’ll be good for you.”

Natasha nods slowly. “You too, Barnes.” Her eyes slide over to Steve. “And you.”

Bucky’s lips twist into a wide grin. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll take care of this sweetheart.”

Steve’s almost certain Natasha can see his smile falter, or at least see the flinch of emotion in his eyes at Bucky’s words. She doesn’t say anything, but she’s a trained spy – she makes a living off of reading people. Steve forces his smile back on, and elbows Bucky.

“Back at you,” he says. “Someone’s gotta do the job.”

They chat for another hour or so. Natasha likes to gossip about what’s going on in the Tower, and Steve likes to pretend not to care.

Clint’s been caught in the vents one too many times, and has now been banned from the range for five days; Natasha and Wanda have a bet as to how long it’ll take before he breaks in. Tony’s been disappearing, and they’re all speculating about his dating life; Thor knows something, but isn’t sharing.

It’s silly, and pointless, but it’s the highlight of Steve’s week to hear these stories – to see that life’s moving on. That they don’t need Steve in the Tower to carry on as usual. Natasha likes to remind him that they miss him, and that he should visit more often, but it’s a comfort, still, to know that he doesn’t have to be everywhere, always.

He gets to have this, instead. Gets to come home to Bucky, in their apartment, near where they’d lived almost a century ago. Gets to go to sleep knowing that Bucky’s in the next room over and will be there in the morning when he wakes up.

The clock’s rolling towards eleven when Natasha announces she needs to go, and they say their goodbyes. Steve hangs up, and closes the screen. He’s about to take the laptop back to him bedroom and get ready for a restless night of staying awake for too long, when Bucky’s hand shoots up to catch his wrist.

Steve’s halfway out of the chair, turned into an awkward angle as he twists back towards Bucky. “Yeah?”

Bucky’s looking at the table. “I want to start therapy.”

Steve blinks quietly back at him. “Really?”

Bucky nods, hesitantly. “Yeah. I want… I want to be happy for Natasha. I want to be able to go outside and not feel like I’m trapped. I want all these things, and they’re never gonna happen unless I start putting work into it. Right?”

He turns his questioning eyes towards Steve, who feels like there’s a lump in his throat. “It’s not a snap of fingers, Buck,” he says. “It’ll take time. It won’t fix everything.”

“I know.” Bucky lets go of his wrist, and Steve’s skin feels cold where his fingers had been. “But I need to try.”

“Okay,” Steve agrees. His heart’s beating out of his chest. “Okay, yeah, we can do that. I can call–”

“No,” Bucky cuts him off. “No one you know. No one I know. I’ve done some research, and there’s this office like a few blocks from here. I’ll call them. I don’t want it to be anyone who knows about me. What I’ve done. They’ll have preconceptions, and all these biases, and I don’t – Steve, I just don’t want them to look at me like they only see a person I don’t want to be.”

It’s fair, and it makes sense. Steve nods. “Okay,” he repeats. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Bucky stays silent, considering the thought. “If you want to,” he decides. “I think you should talk to someone, too. But for what it’s worth, I think it’ll be a bit harder for you to go undercover.”

Steve huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, a bit. Might have to change states for that.”

Bucky gives him a dry smile. “Try countries, Stevie.”

“Right,” Steve says, smiling back. “Let me know how it goes, alright?”

Bucky mumbles, “Obviously,” and Steve thinks that sums them up pretty well.

 _Obviously_.

 

*

 

Steve’s blinking up at the sky, feeling the pain in his right side, knows that he’s bleeding through the suit and Bucky won’t be happy about _that_ , because the smell of blood will have to follow them home and blood isn’t something he likes all that much, which Steve understands, of course he does – and he has to clench his jaw when the pain gets worse, and much more pointed.

He’s watching clouds roll by across the pale blue sky, and he’s thinking about Bucky, who has to _know,_ and he can’t _die_ before Bucky knows – is he dying? Is this what dying feels like? – and then suddenly all he sees is black as he passes out on the streets of New York with Natasha holding his hand and someone yelling his name.

He doesn’t dream, and when he comes to, he’s in a hospital he’s never been to before. Or at least the ceiling doesn’t look familiar as he cracks his eyes open, and once he moves his gaze to the rest of the room, none of it looks normal, either.

The windows look sturdy enough to be bullet-proof, and the one door that there is has been bolted and reinforced. It’s more a prison than a hospital room, and Steve has to wonder if he’s really that special that they had to get him a room like this, when his attention is pulled away by something else.

Bucky’s sitting in a chair by his bed. His head has lolled back and his mouth is hanging slightly open; his hand lies close to Steve’s on the bed, which makes Steve’s heart race a little. He takes in Bucky’s disheveled appearance, and can’t help but wonder how many hours have passed. Or days.

“Bucky,” he says, his voice hoarse and raspy.

Bucky wakes up immediately, blinking his eyes open. He’s by Steve’s side in a second, grasping his hand in his and scanning him from head to toe. “You fucking idiot,” is the first thing he says, which makes Steve smile. “Where does it hurt?”

Steve’s not sure. His ribs ache, and there’s a headache forming, but it’s not the worst he’s ever been, not even close. “I’m fine,” he summarizes aloud. “How long was I out?”

Bucky looks tired, but it’s no real indication of anything – he always looks tired. “A day or so,” he says. Steve feels a wave of relief. “It was about twenty-two hours ago that they brought you here. It’s now...” He glances at his phone. “One in the afternoon.”

Steve doesn’t ask if he’s been here the entire time, because the answer seems obvious. Instead, he glances at the door, and then back at Bucky. “They really thought I needed all this special attention, then?”

Bucky smiles, if only a little. “Stark’s idea,” he tells him. “Some people might accuse him of being paranoid.”

“Not you, of course,” Steve grins.

“No,” Bucky says. “Of course not.”

There’s a comfortable silence that stretches between them. Steve takes solace from the feel of Bucky’s hand in his, but there’s a creeping sense of discomfort in his chest at the knowledge that he has to tell Bucky sooner or later.

 _Later_ , he decides, swallowing air. “So, they let you in here? Just like that.”

A weird look flickers across Bucky’s features. “No. They didn’t want to, especially since I don’t exactly have any ID. But Stark pulled some strings, and no one’s come to complain since.” He pauses, and looks at Steve so fondly, his chest aches from something other than his injuries. “Had to be here for my best guy, right?”

“Right,” he agrees. His voice sounds weak. “Did they tell you what happened? Did someone call?”

Bucky’s expression turns steely. His grip on Steve’s hand tightens for a second, before he relaxes. “I was watching it from the TV,” he says grimly. “Just, you know. ‘Cause they show it live, and I like to make sure everything’s fine. And it _was_ fine, up until the point where some alien impaled you.”

Steve makes a small sound of understanding. “Yeah, I remember that.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “and then I knew something was wrong when you didn’t get up. So, I sprinted over. They let me come in with the ambulance.”

Steve’s throat feels dry. They would’ve asked if Bucky was family. He would’ve said yes. He wouldn’t be wrong – Steve doesn’t know what else they could possibly be. But it hurts somewhere deep in his bone, still, to know that others are seeing them through this lens they don’t understand. They hear _family_ , and they don’t _know_.

“That’s good,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Did they say what’s broken?”

Bucky shrugs. “Your ribs, but I’m pretty sure they’re healing already. Some other broken bones that are healing. You hit your head pretty bad, I guess that’s why you have a headache.”

Steve frowns. “How’d you know?”

Bucky looks at him like he’s an idiot. “You squint a lot whenever you get a headache,” he explains. “I know your tells, Rogers. What else are best friends for?”

Steve smiles, recognizing the familiar warmth in his chest that nestles there and makes itself comfortable. “What else,” he agrees. “Can you smuggle me some water?”

Bucky stands up. “I’ll do you one better – they have mint tea in the café.”

“You really can read my mind,” Steve jokes, but he hopes he can’t, because the thought most prominent in his mind at that moment is, _I think I want to marry you_.

 

*

 

Steve wakes up to someone gently shaking his shoulder. He blinks his eyes open, his gaze first darting towards the clock on the bedside table that shows 3:27 in glowing red letters, and then towards whoever’s woken him up.

It’s Bucky. He’s wearing a ratty old t-shirt and Steve’s pajama pants, his hair pulled up into a haphazard ponytail. The right side of his face is glowing from the yellow light coming through the window. He has his arms crossed defensively, and he’s looking at Steve like he’s… afraid.

“Bucks,” Steve whispers groggily. “What is it?”

Bucky sways on his feet, glancing out the window. “Can we talk?” He asks, looking back at Steve and biting his lip.

Steve sits up, sensing this is a conversation he might not want to have lying down under his covers. “Yeah,” he says, and rubs the remnants of sleep from his eyes. “Sit down. Couldn’t sleep?”

Bucky folds himself next to Steve, knees drawn up and hands wrapped around his legs. He presses his chin on top of his left knee, eyes settling somewhere near Steve’s calves. “Yeah,” he confirms. “It’s just… I’ve been meaning to tell you, and there’s never really been a good time.”

Steve wants to poke fun at his notion that apparently, _a good time_ is half past three in the morning, but he doesn’t. He feels vaguely sick, his stomach churning from worry. “Okay. And what is it that you’ve been meaning to tell me?”

Bucky stays silent for a long time, staring at nothing with blank eyes. Outside, cars pass by. The looping shadows from their headlights against the open blinds move across the wall like tidal waves. Steve wants to escape. He wants to leave this room, and not have this conversation – because what else could this be, but the one thing he’s been afraid of?

Eventually, Bucky starts. “I know you’re in love with me,” he says, point-black, and Steve closes his eyes.

“Yes.” Denying it wouldn’t get him anywhere – Bucky knows him better than that. He feels like he can’t breathe right, like somehow the air is getting stuck somewhere in his chest.

“And I know that...” Bucky pauses. “That I’m in love with you, too.”

Steve tenses. Slowly, he opens his eyes, and turns to look at Bucky with tired, disbelieving eyes. “You are?”

Bucky’s still not looking at him. His jaw’s tense. “Yeah,” he says. “Since the forties. And I’ve been tryna tell you, but you’re just so goddamn thick sometimes. How many times do I gotta call you my guy before you realize I fucking mean it?”

Steve blinks at him. “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_. At first I thought you were just being polite about it – letting me down without saying it, you know, or something – but you’ve never been that sort of guy.” Bucky’s eyes slide towards him, and Steve’s breath catches. “My therapist told me I should tell you, since it’s been eating me up inside for a good eighty years, if we’re counting literally. So, now you know. You’re my guy. My sweetheart. My darling. The love of my entire goddamn fucking life–”

His words are cut off as Steve leans closer, placing his hand gingerly on Bucky’s jaw, and kisses him. There’s a split second where nothing happens, where time feels infinite – and then Bucky’s kissing him back, leaning into it like it’s been decades in the making, and it really has.

Steve doesn’t draw away, not really. His lips are still brushing against Bucky’s, who’s moved so that he’s sitting right next to Steve, hands wrapped around his neck, cold metal on his skin. Steve presses his forehead against Bucky’s, and sighs softly, eyes closed.

“Since the forties?” He asks quietly.

“Yeah,” Bucky says hoarsely against his lips. “Thought you might’ve caught the fucking hint back then already, but clearly, you didn’t.”

“Clearly, I fucking didn’t,” Steve agrees. He feels laughter bubbling out of his chest, unbidden. He opens his eyes and kisses Bucky again, just a whisper of a touch. “God, I’ve been an idiot.”

Bucky snorts. “I’d be inclined to agree with that,” he jokes. “Now, will you stop being that idiot, and just let me love you?”

Steve thinks his heart should be bursting out of his chest, but instead it’s beating steadily, like it knows it’s reached home. Like it knows that everything’s going to be alright. “Yeah,” he says, “I think I can do that.”

They curl up together, with Steve wrapping his arms around Bucky who presses his head against his chest and tangles their legs, getting as close as humanly possible. Steve breathes in the smell of his shampoo – honey and almond – and smiles to himself, thinking back to the forties.

It wasn’t uncommon for them to share a bed. The winters were cold, and space was sparse, and Bucky liked any excuse to sidle up next to him.

Now, he doesn’t need an excuse. It’s not cold – Steve feels warm, and content. There’s plenty of space in their apartment – but Bucky wants to share his space with Steve.

Steve falls asleep next to Bucky, thinking of the poetry he’ll write about this moment tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> my steve/bucky [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/s81zmzxkvz4j9mrfakwy4xt0e/playlist/3ji6XIk5FCV2zfjsL5wRw1?si=iTi--XSVSuyyf03FFN1KtQ), in case anyone's interested (link's to spotify)


End file.
